


CODE

by SorrowsFlower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Games, Mind Games, Morse Code, Secret language, Seduction, code, disguises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 22:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9518174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SorrowsFlower/pseuds/SorrowsFlower
Summary: She turned slightly so that he could see her profile and the mischievous smile on her face. Without a word, she turned the mobile off and slipped it carelessly into her purse.It was only to preserve his cover as brooding musician that he stopped the answering grin from spreading across his face.She wanted to PLAY.Excellent.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly, I suck at summaries, so here's all you need to know: I set myself a challenge to write a fic where Sherlock and Irene communicate in their own secret way in the middle of a crowd without any contact or dialogue.
> 
> Enjoy!

O’ Hare International Airport was one of the busiest airports in the world, and Christmas was the busiest time of the year, with hundreds of flights coming in and out of Chicago, and people frantically hurrying to and fro trying to get from point A to point B, rushing to make their connecting flights or complaining at the terminals.

Today was no different. The chic little cafe was especially crowded, with people waiting impatiently in line for ridiculously expensive, disappointingly bland coffee and a scone. Every table was occupied by people plugged into their phones waiting for their flights.

He cleared the security check with no problem, the only odd thing in his luggage being the long black cylinder in his guitar case and there was nothing deemed dangerous about it. He donned the black leather jacket that he had picked up in Prague specifically for this disguise.

It was hardly his typical attire, and it was slightly uncomfortable. A little restrictive especially around the shoulders, and he missed the mobility his Belstaff coat afforded him. Still, the leather jacket worked remarkably well for the struggling, pseudo-rebellious travelling musician he was currently pretending to be.

He strode through the terminal, ignoring the bustle of people around him. He took a seat across the cafe, set his guitar case down on the empty seat beside him, and took out his phone. Four rows behind him, a child wailed and a harried mother shushed it, but he ignored them, instead focusing on the cafe’s clientele.

She was sitting in one of the tables, her detached, languid stance fitting in well with the casually impatient attitude of the travelers waiting for their flights around her. She had a cup of coffee at her left elbow, a mobile at her right, and laid out in front of her was an organizer with little Post-It notes sticking out of the sides.

And she was also deliberately facing away from the terminal, so that all he could see of her was her back and a sliver of her reflection in the cafe’s mirrored walls.

He pretended to be absorbed in his mobile and typed out a “?” before sending it to a number he had long-ago memorized.

The mobile resting on the table in front of her chimed. She glanced at it off-handedly, then turned very slightly so that he could see her profile and the mischievous smile on her face. Without a word, she turned the mobile off and slipped it carelessly into her purse.

It was only to preserve his cover as brooding musician that he stopped the answering grin from spreading across his face.

She wanted to _play._

Excellent.

He hid a small smile and leaned back, studying her as carefully as he could without being obvious. She was in disguise too, of course.

Tapping into the airport’s video feed would be only too easy for Mycroft if he got even the smallest hint that she was there. Not that he would, after all this was the Woman. But why make it easier for the elder Holmes?

Not that she was planning on making it easy for the younger Holmes either.

There was a reason why she had chosen to sit with her back to him. She wanted him at a disadvantage. He couldn’t see her directly, but she could see his reflection perfectly well on the cafe’s mirrored walls.

He examined her disguise, or at least the aspects of it that she had decided to reveal. She was dressed in a fashionable attire – not surprising, given her meticulous sense of style. But the ensemble she had on wasn’t the kind she usually favored.

Pastel colors, soft, flowing fabric, beads at her wrist : a stark contrast to the sharp, geometric, monochromatic dresses and the decadent form-fitting silk and lace he had previously seen her in… though admittedly he had not seen much of her wardrobe, her first appearance in her “battle dress” still being the image of her at the forefront of his mind palace…

A voice announcing the boarding of a flight at the next terminal thankfully brought him out of that particular train of thought and forced him to continue his observations.

His gaze went to a small tourist guide for Milan sticking out of the top of her purse. Milan and the outfit spoke of fashion, easily deduced. The neat little organizer with the sticky notes and the expensive pen beside it spoke of a professional. Anyone looking would probably see a young professional woman working in the fashion industry, probably a writer or a fashion editor or something similar, on her way to Milan for some stylish event.

But he wasn’t fool enough to believe that she was actually on her way to Milan. Not with her shoes. Besides, with the Woman, it was always best to look beyond the surface. But there _was_ something about Milan or Italy…

She crossed her legs under the table and idly stirred her coffee with her left hand. To anyone else it would seem like a casual, meaningless gesture, but fifteen seconds in, a pattern began to emerge from her stirring.

She would stir counter-clockwise twice, then clockwise. Three seconds later, she would stir clockwise four times. Another three seconds, she would stir counter-clockwise three times. Another three seconds, three stirs clockwise. Then finally, one counter-clockwise stir. He took note of the pattern and tried to deduce it.

It was obviously a code with two components: clock-wise and counter clockwise stirs, even Anderson could have figured that out. But what did they signify? Binary code? No…

It took him two more repetitions to figure out that it was Morse code: clockwise stirs were for dots, counter clockwise for dashes.

She must have noticed that he had caught on because she stopped stirring suddenly and he almost missed the last letter in her message. She turned the cup deliberately so that its handle was pointing to the left.

As he watched, she idly lifted the spoon from the cup and tapped it casually against the rim of her cup so that the foam dripped off it. One, two, three taps.

He leaned back in a casual slump on his chair that gave him a good view of the left side of the bench he was sitting on. It was empty. He frowned before looking past the bench.

Not three chairs or three rows then. He looked beyond the area he was sitting in, and immediately realized what she meant.

Three terminals away, he spotted it and he cocked one eyebrow at her, pulling out his phone again and attaching a pair of earphones in. He plugged the buds into his ears, but he didn’t press play – that would deprive him of one of his senses, something he was reluctant to do in this setting – but it was enough to give the illusion of him listening to some music no one else could hear.

In keeping with his musician disguise, he began tapping out a rhythm to the imaginary music he was listening to. He tapped in Morse code as well, in response to her original message. He used his two index fingers and kept his pace quick, because she liked a challenge and he wanted to use her reverse view of his reflection on the cafe walls to his advantage.

Left index finger for dots, right for dashes. One right tap. Four left taps. One left, then a right. Another right tap. Three left taps. A five second pause, then another four left taps. Two left taps. Then finally, two right taps.

_“That’s him?”_

He glanced at her skeptically, which earned him a small glare in the cafe mirror’s reflection.

She didn’t answer, but brought the spoon to her lips under the pretext of cleaning the stray drops of coffee and foam from it. The sight of her licking the spoon clean pulled his focus from the man three terminals away, and he found his stare riveted on the Woman’s quick tongue catching a droplet of the caramel liquid from the spoon’s neck before spreading the moisture across her blood-red lips – the only feature of her usual make-up that she had kept, because she knew it would remind him of what she could do with those clever lips and that sinful tongue.

Minx. She was distracting him as punishment for questioning her.

He tore his gaze away and fixed it determinedly on the man three terminals away. The Ghost. Well, that was certainly not what he had expected.

According to a reliable source, the Ghost was one of Jim Moriarty’s most formidable henchmen, who had helped him build his web and was second only to Moran in his position in Jim’s esteem. This Ghost had been instrumental in creating the fake character that was Rich Brook and had falsified all the documents, the references that had so effectively convinced the enterprising Kitty Riley and her hungry reading public. This Ghost had even hacked into the MI5 archives to modify the information on Moriarty to fit the Richard Brook lie.

When he had pictured this formidable figure, he had certainly not expected him to be the skinny, pallid-looking young man with stringy hair whose shirt had a picture of a woman in a metallic gold bikini across his thin chest.

Still, appearances could be deceiving. Wasn’t he the perfect example? Wasn’t the Woman?

Speaking of whom…

He released his breath slowly as she deliberately moved her hair away from her neck under the pretext of fixing her left earring. This left the back of her neck completely exposed to him, and his fingers flexed reflexively, as if they were already running themselves across the smooth expanse of skin between the base of her head and the ridge of her spine.

As he watched, her fingers drifted from her neck to the spot behind her left ear, the little dip there that he was always determined to linger on because it was where her perfume was most concentrated, and whenever he inhaled deeply, her own breathing would hitch and her pulse would quicken beneath the thin translucent membrane of her skin…

He caught her wicked smile in the mirror and he knew she had accurately guessed his train of thought.

Suddenly he was on his feet, impatient to get this Ghost business over with. He quickly collected his bag and guitar case and strode with renewed determination through the terminal. Across the hall, she stood up from her seat on the cafe table and picked up her purse.

He was headed away from the terminal, back to the ticket booth to purchase a flight to Milan. She walked past him, presumably on her way to her own flight. As she did, her hand brushed his momentarily and for 0.03 seconds, her index finger hooked against his, her nail trailing along the inside of his finger as she let go, and he felt something small and thin slide into his pocket.

He didn’t look at her, nor did she look at him. No more than half a second of contact – and that would have to be enough.

At least, he thought as he looked down at the ticket to the opera at the _Teatr Wielki_ that she had slipped into his pocket, until he got to his stop-over at Warsaw.

**Author's Note:**

> You know Sherlock's gonna get some in Poland, lol.
> 
> As usual, please tell me what you think! I welcome all feedback and constructive criticism!


End file.
